


Needs Must

by Moriri



Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: Drama, Gen, Horror, Humor, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriri/pseuds/Moriri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because what measure is a soul, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs Must

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted via my Tumblr (professormorriarty.tumblr.com). Written using the prompt "sacrifice".
> 
> A rather loose interpretation of what the bargain leading to the events of JCtN might have looked like.

In the deepest pit of hell, where the only light was from the searing lake of magma, the only sounds were distant cries of torment, and the only visitors were fools, damn fools, and demons in a whole lot of trouble (and thus encompassing all three), a business meeting was well underway.

Lord Satan, supreme ruler of the underworld (and uncontested bridge champion), was poised atop his towering throne.

Standing at his feet was the unmoved, unimpressed, and increasingly impatient figure of Johannes Cabal.

“So,” said Satan, leering down at the darkly-clad figure before him, “just to confirm the stipulations involved…” He snapped his fingers and his impish (literally, as it happened) secretary popped into being in order to pass him a sheet of parchment. “Let us review, shall we?”

Another snap of his fingers brought a pair of sleek reading glasses to hand. Logically, being the lord of darkness _and_ the all-powerful bringer of light would imply that he should have no difficulty making out even the tiniest print in the sulphurous haze of his throne room - and indeed, he did not. The glasses served absolutely no purpose save for making him look smart.

“‘I - that is, _you_ -” Satan read, “Johannes Cabal, agree that in exchange for…’ You know, out of curiosity” - Cabal hissed irritably at the interruption - “is that it? ‘Johannes Cabal’, I mean. Terribly dull on its own. You don’t have some sort of embarrassing middle name that would liven things up, would you?”

“‘Johannes Cabal’,” said the aforementioned necrothologist, folding his arms. “That’s all you require.”

“Fine. ‘I, Johannes Fernando Cabal—”

Cabal bristled. “That is _not_ my name.”

“Maybe not, but if you don’t give me something to work with, I’m going to pick whatever I jolly well please. Fernando.” Satan cleared his throat; the ensuing rumble caused a few errant stalactites to plummet into the magma. “‘I agree that in exchange for insight into the art of necromancy—”

“Must it be ‘art’?” asked Cabal. Interruptions were, of course, perfectly okay so long as they were entirely on his own terms. “That sounds far too…” Cabal sought for the word in the well-ordered lexicon of his mind. “…vague. Ambiguous. _Whimsical_ ," he decided. "I’m not looking to gain a Boschian talent for painting the dead and damned."

“No?” Satan arched a fiendishly elegant eyebrow. “That’s a shame. Personally, I find his works add a certain wholesome, comforting atmosphere to my parlour.” The face Cabal pulled could best the smoke in the air for sheer acrid sourness. “All right, all right.” Satan judiciously did not add ‘you philistine’. “Would you prefer ‘science’?”

Cabal inclined his head. “That shall be fine.”

“For a relative definition of fine, you mean.” Satan pushed up the frames that gave him the secret thrill of feeling like a hip, young, fashionably-debauched intellectual. “Blah blah blah, ‘insight into the _science_ of necromancy, in exchange for one [1] immortal soul, to be delivered unto the guarantor - that would be yours truly,” said Satan, with a cheery twiddling of fingers, “upon the event of my—ahem, _your_ demise, and which shall thus remain in the possession of the guarantor for the period of approximately the rest of eternity [∞].’” Satan nodded in satisfaction. “Good for you? Again: relatively speaking.”

“Yes. No.” Cabal was thoughtlessly tightening his grip on his Gladstone. “No, not quite.”

“Oh, no. Please don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. Why do they always have second thoughts?” The smoke filling the cavernous room was growing increasing thick and tenebrous, until even the magma was nothing more than a faint orange glow on the edge of perception; to Cabal, it seemed as though his entire world had winked out of existence, with nothing left but the looming threat of the devil’s merciless judgement.

“Just this once I’d like to take someone’s soul without any pleading or whining or namby-pamby fiddle playing! You mortals can’t commit to anything, can you? I’m a busy embodiment of evil, practically granting these audiences out of the kindness of my heart,” Satan pressed a hand to his chest, “and _this_ is how you repay me!”

Even Cabal was wincing at the thunderous boom of Satan’s voice; he wasn’t particularly fond of having his ear drums ruptured. “I should put up a sign: no free consultations! No soliciting! Violators will be fed to the hellhounds!”

“If you would kindly cease your histrionics,” said Cabal, tapping his foot on the basalt. “I still have full intention of going through with the transaction.”

Instantly, the air cleared. Satan’s voice lowered to its typical timbre, down from earth-shattering to merely teeth-rattling.

“…You do?”

Cabal nodded.

“…Oh.” Satan coughed. “Ah. Well. In that case.” He didn’t make even the slightest attempt to look sheepish. “I see.”

Satan leaned back and crossed his legs instead. He couldn’t have appeared less scrupulous if he tried. “What’s on your mind, Johannes?”

Cabal ran his tongue across dry lips, tasting ash as he did so. “I have an additional stipulation.”

Satan’s expression didn’t change, though he’d begun drumming his tented fingers together in a way that brought to mind large, scuttling spiders. “Go on.”

Cabal shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Simply put—” Cabal paused, tried again. “Simply put, I would…”

He ran the words over in his head a final time, after days - after weeks - of painstaking rehearsal. There was to be no unsightly hesitation, no last-minute amendments. He was prepared for this.

He was prepared for this.

He was utterly, completely, absolutely without question, prepared for this.

Cabal found himself examining the pros and cons for the umpteenth time, performing calculations that were as swift as they were assiduously detached. The gears whirred relentlessly in his rigid, scientific mind while he chewed on the crux of a simple equation.

Nothing major; a mere (X + Y) - Z, really, albeit with variables best left undefined and a solution that even the finest mathematicians would decry.

There was a brief hiccup when - purely as a part of being thorough - he attempted to review the factors that had merited this sulphurous safari. Metaphorical machinery began to whine as wrenches formed of pathos tried to wedge themselves between the cogs.

Cabal - owing to months of deliberation and something else besides - showed no signs of this, save for the way his breath had hitched in his throat.

“You don’t have all day, Johannes.” Satan affected a shrug. If he’d noticed anything, he evidently preferred to stay mum and let Cabal sweat it out. “I, on the other hand, have all of forever, but I’m also liable to get bored and smite you where you stand. Mustn’t dilly-dally.”

Cabal was still thinking.

Satan had his lips pursed. “I’m waiting.”

Still thinking

Thinking of what he had seen and done and felt

“Johannes…”

Thinking about the means to this end

“Come _on_ , Johannes.”

Thinking about deep rushing water and cold musty tombs and big empty homes and

seen and done and

the things that had brought him here and

the things he would be leaving behind and

and

 

 

 

“You’re looking mighty pleased all of a sudden. I think.” Satan squinted which, much like the glasses, was entirely for show. “Whatever face that is, it looks painful.”

The smile did strain his cheeks, just a little. Only because there was nothing left to weigh it down.

“Are you planning on sharing with the class anytime soon? Only my smiting hand is getting itchy.”

Cabal squared his shoulders.

He breathed as deeply as he dared.

He reined in his twisting grin, though its ghost seemed to linger in the gleam of his eyes.

Then, with clarity and aplomb, Cabal said, “I want you to take my soul.”

Satan pulled a face. “This may come as a shock, Johannes, but that’s generally the idea—”

“ _Immediately_.”

That got a reaction, if you counted a slight widening of the eyes and stroking of the chin as such.

“…Now _that_ is interesting,” muttered Satan. “You know, of course, that it’s standard procedure to collect my payment at the end. And without any interest, because I’m such a nice chap.”

“I do.” Cabal canted his head, allowing the red light to catch his glasses. “I still wish to be rid of it immediately.”

“And may I ask why?” Satan asked sweetly, or at least as sweetly as the prince of lies could manage, which was roughly equivocal to a lolly made of habaneros.

“You may not. I don’t believe my reasoning is any of your business.”

“Ah, but it is _entirely_ my business, Johannes. Your eagerness to dispose of your immortal soul is questionable. Might there be something wrong with it?” asked Satan, looking completely scandalised. “Souls are my bread and butter; I can’t make a living on shoddy merchandise. Hardly fair for me to give you all these arcane powers in exchange for…” He waved his hand. “…for a sampling of the reject pile.”

“I assure you, my soul is not defective,” said Cabal, though a part of him - the part that was still questioning the sagacity of this entire venture - began to wonder if that might not be true after all, and how one even went about assessing a soul’s individual utility. “I simply wish to be rid of it.”

“Come on. You won’t even give me some weak justification?”

“If you must know, I would prefer to get the collection process over with sooner rather than later.”

“Aha. You’re one of those people who just rips plasters off, aren’t you? All right.” Satan nodded. “…Is that it, then?”

Anyone else would have combusted instantly under the force of Cabal’s glare. As it stood, Satan merely felt a dull pain between his eyes.

“I like to fancy myself a decent lie detector, Johannes. Takes one to know one, etcetera etcetera.”

The Gladstone’s leather handle creaked between Cabal’s fingers.

“Now, what are you not telling me?”

“Nothing.” Satan grinned at him; Cabal huffed. “Nothing of import. I’ve made an assessment and come to the conclusion that a soul is not required in regards to the nature of my work. In fact, my hypothesis suggests it would be a hindrance to—”

“Yes, science science science, words words words. Don’t make that face, Johannes, you’ll scare the imps.” He cleared his throat. “So, in summation?”

“In summation… I simply don’t need it.”

If a pin could have dropped for effect, it would have. As things stood, another tumbling stalactite would have to make do.

“…You don’t need it,” said Satan.

“Has a few millennia of listening to your own deafening ego dulled your hearing?”

“You don’t need it.”

“There are many things that I don’t need - your tone being one of them. But yes. I don’t need my soul.”

Cabal waited.

Satan waited.

The distant screams of the damned, the condemned, and the uniquely masochistic provided a disquieting background hum.

Cabal waited some more.

Satan was staring right at him, right _into_ him, past his smoked spectacles and his steely blue eyes and likely through whatever foul, undulating ooze comprised his inner workings.

Incidentally, the sweat on Cabal’s brow was entirely from the heat.

Satan had pursed his lips and set his chin upon a colossal hand.

Cabal controlled his wandering thoughts before they could drift back to his prior internal debate.

Satan scratched at his nose.

Cabal swallowed, which was, again, a result of the drying heat.

Then

Then

(The Gladstone was swaying in his cramping fingers. Warm updrafts, naturally. )

_Then_

 

 

 

“If I were dealing with anyone else,” said Satan, “and they flatly declared that they didn’t need their immortal soul, I would say piffle.

“But _you_ , Johannes. You’re so heartless, and humourless, and, and…” Satan flicked out a finger and a sudden gust sent Cabal’s slouch-brimmed hat to the ground. “…and hatless that I actually believe you. Your base level of depravity is impressive enough that not having your soul would actually change very little, in my educated opinion.”

Cabal had finally managed to replace his headwear with only a slight (but entirely unacceptable) dent to his dignity. “Is that a ‘yes’, then?”

“Eh, what the H-E-double cricket bats? Sure.” The parchment fell from Satan’s fingers and an unseen force carried it before Cabal (who kept his free hand atop his hat just to be safe). “Same rules as before, with the addendum that I’ll collect payment from the get-go. No muss, no fuss, no awkward pleading on one’s deathbed. Or death bonfire, in your case.”

Cabal had retrieved a pen from his breast pocket and was just about to write the J when he noticed the frown. “I’m not an expert,” he said, “but doesn’t tradition suggest the _damnee_ is the one who should look put out?”

“What? Oh. Oh, no, I was just lamenting at how no one seems to sign in blood anymore. It always felt so much more… personal.”

“I doubt they would, considering how humanity’s understanding of bacterial infection has been steadily improving. I suspect nobody wants to perish mere days after writing off their souls due to some sort of daemonic pathogen.”

Satan shrugged and made a mental note to avoid washing his hands. “Fine. Use ink if you must.”

Cabal poised the pen above the parchment.

He took a final breath

and he muttered a final word

and he felt a final pang

and then

 

 

 

 

 

“It’s done.”

His name, written in a neat, utilitarian script, glistened at the bottom of the contract.

Even in the dim light, the ink looked impossibly black.

The parchment zipped back into Satan’s outstretched palm. "Brilliant!"

He scrutinised it for a careful moment - again tugging on his glasses - before a short nod summoned the secretary back to his side, who carefully rolled it up before poofing out of sight.

“Everything seems to be in order. Did you know some people try to cheat me by deliberately writing the wrong name? It makes no difference, of course, except for guaranteeing that they’ll be called whatever bastardised moniker they’ve concocted for the duration of their stay.” He sighed. “I was sort of hoping you’d spitefully sign ‘Fernando’. Ah, well.”

That said, Satan sat up straighter in his colossal throne, shook out his limbs, and extended his arms.

“Ahem. In accordance to the stipulations outlined in all that deliciously obtuse legal mumbo jumbo, I will now take ownership of what is now rightfully mine. Please, hold your applause.”

Cabal braced himself, not knowing exactly what the extraction would entail or how violent it would be, but figuring that Satan wouldn’t miss the opportunity to subject him to an embarrassing pratfall.

Satan took an unnecessarily deep breath.

He twiddled his fingers.

 

 

 

Then he paused and said, “You know what? I think I like you, Johannes Cabal. By which I mean, I’m still going to take your soul, and you can still piss right off and stay out of my sight until some lynch mob - I’m sure you realise that necromancers aren’t popular - sends your pasty arse back down here.

“But you’re ready and willing to throw away the tenuous bit of humanity you still possess for the sake of a wish that’s guaranteed to leave chaos, discord and righteous anger in your wake. And I don’t know about you, but gosh if that doesn’t bring a smile to my cynical old face.”

Cabal said nothing. Even now, he didn’t want to risk revealing anything more. But also because he lacked a response that didn’t involve a dizzying amount of eye rolling.

“Yes, where was I? …Right; taking ownership.” There was another flourish of Satan’s dexterous fingers while a curious second layer entered into his voice, like a slithering echo that sauntered up the spine before seeping directly into the depths of one’s brain.

"Johannes Cabal," he boomed, "by the power vested in me, in return for the immediate revocation of your immortal soul…"

Cabal closed his eyes.

“…I hereby grant unto thee the gift of necromancy.”

At once there was a deafening _crack_

followed by the sound of blood rushing in his ears

an implacable cold that began in his chest and quickly consumed every inch of his being

a suffocating pressure

a weakening vacuum

the sensation of falling

the urge to sob, overtaken by the urge to scream, overwritten by what could only be described as void

one last smile, one last laugh, one last farewell to all that had kept him down and awake and afraid

then noise

then heat

then darkness

and then

 

 

 

and then

 

 

 

finally

 

 

 

there was nothing.

 

 

 

 

Johannes Cabal felt nothing.

Nothing at all.


End file.
